The right move
by planet p
Summary: AU; it's arguments like these that you don't buy into; you don't even start.


It isn't something that she'd usually pick up on, so she wonders that she does. It's not like Reston, the stuff he wears could kill a cow, and his looks are always five times worse. It's something else. _Right_, she thinks, when her mind clicks over and _slip_, falls into place; it seems to fit, _it's his shampoo._ It takes a while longer. _Apple_, she thinks, and lets that thought sink in for a bit, cogs turning; waits for it to do something, rouse something, a computerised search that's looking for something that's sketchy and undefined, until it's pulled up and it's suddenly bold, concrete, rigidly set in its definitiveness.

It doesn't gel, nothing sinks in or rises to the surface; not even a single bubble. _What's apple got to do with anything?_

Her own brand of shampoo is expensive, never in apple; as far as she's aware the line doesn't even sell anything in apple; wouldn't be caught dead, she figures.

There's an image she conjures in her mind: a wavy speech bubble or roughly sketched cloud, in the middle sits the word 'apple'; associated uses cluster around it, connected to the bubble by thin black lines, no arrows: apples are for school lunches, for platters set out by catering staff at boring, low-end dos, for the fruit bowl in the foyer; for apple juice and apple cider like vinegar and apple pie; for when your doctor, or someone you know who may or may not give a stink, says you need more potassium in your diet and you think, _What the fuck, how'd you bloody know?_ and _Piss orf!_ For when you're stuck in the supermarket thinking, _What do I get?_ For when, in an idle moment that seems otherworldly in its disconnection from jack everything, you think, _It's been a while since I've had an apple_, and wonder if you've forgotten the taste, if it'll hurt your teeth when you bite into it, too cold; too sweet, too unripe, sour.

_Dull as ditchwater_, she thinks; these are things her brother doesn't even contemplate, anything dull phases out of his world as though it never even existed; What bloody right does it have! She gets that about him; she gets how people's eyes look at things, what they see, what they don't; what they care about, what they couldn't give a shit for. She's got that funky gene, too. _Doesn't show_, she thinks, _but it's here; right as rain, Mabel, never you worry your pretty head._ A bit of humour's not the bad guy; it's not offensive like it usually is. She does a double take over the day, mentally tallying the number of people she's yelled at, berated, or generally expressed unhappiness over.

It's early: what a bloody sight! She can't think of a single person. _What's wrong, chicken_, she thinks, _feeling ill, feeling off; feeling a bit down today? Cheer up, Dixie, the derby's not left town yet!_

If he's playing country boy, it's for a girl: a chill runs through her veins, fast like a slap; ticklish when it resounds, rebounding off walls, _No, hey, this ain't no dream, girl!_

_Just me_, she thinks, thinking on it too hard; thinking wildly 'til something comes up; must, mustn't it? Got to draw something; a card with connections is more likely to convince than one without: don't fall for that, he's sneakier than that!

Got to be something, though. Got to be. Got to mean something!

She shushes the nagging thoughts; she's got other concerns right now, concerns that centre around Jarod and not her brother.

_Stick to the job_, she thinks.

* * *

Cox is acting off, acting up a bit. Giving people funny half looks, mostly her brother. She senses that he wants to talk.

_Talk_, she thinks, _what about? To him? You've got to be kidding! Talk to Sydney; talk to _Raines_!_ Anyone but him.

It's something they need Cox's opinion on, as a medical professional; they're in some conference room, probably. There's a coffee machine outside in the corridor; she can discern its hum from here; termite-like, it worms its way through walls.

Cox fidgets, he turns pages when he hasn't finished reading the one he was looking at, his eyes got lost on the lines, he turns back and has to start again before he can skip ahead and pick up where he lost the trail; keep reading.

He turns away from the table suddenly, straightening like a pocket knife; dressed in a suit, though. Pretty funny damned pocket knife! "No, you know what – what's any of this got to do with me, tell me that? Just tell me that?" He doesn't see Miss Parker; doesn't see Sydney or Broots; just Lyle. He's frowning like he's in pain; maybe he is. He goes on, no time to waste, "She's not her; she never was; right from the start. You've got some agenda here, some crazy thing that's going on in your head. Well, I want to know; I want _in_!"

Lyle's expression is blank. Strangely, strangely blank. In Afrikaans he says, "_How do you figure?_" Or roughly that.

The meaning is lost on Miss Parker; Sydney quietly observes; he never says what he picks up on and what he doesn't, but he speaks Dutch and he speaks German; it's got to be a sight more than either Miss Parker or Broots.

"That kid; she looks like _his_ kid. So what is it? She some sort of… of _clone_?" He refuses to speak Afrikaans; there's no way around this.

"This isn't helping us find Jarod," Lyle finally replies; dull as ditchwater.

"Shut up!"

"I beg your pardon." Dull. Not even lively enough to be construed a questioning tone.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE? SHE'S DEAD! SHE'S DEAD!"

Miss Parker is taken aback. Cox, screaming. Strange business; _his sister_, she thinks, _dead_. She turns a glance to her brother, "Leave him alone," she says. Doesn't mean anything especial by it, just says it. What else is there to say?

It's as though Cox doesn't hear her, as though no one does: "WHAT'S YOUR GAME?" he shouts.

"I told you," Lyle replies. A beat, another; then, "She isn't dead." The wording sounds painful, painfully forced.

"And I told you that she is! She's my sister, not yours!" At this, a quick glance is directed at Miss Parker.

_I stuck up for you_, she thinks; _thanks_.

Lyle nods, indicating the desk behind Cox. "We'll talk about this some other time," he decides.

"So you can run off, wriggle out of it? No!"

"Why don't you take a break?" Lyle suggests softly; to which he adds a frown and shakes his head: "We can even get someone else; it doesn't have to be you."

Cox's expression is caught between confused and angry; it's hard to tell which rules more strongly. "That's it? 'Fuck off'!"

Miss Parker has never heard Cox swear; it's… different.

"This is nonsense! Utter tripe! What – Catherine told you? Is that it?"

Miss Parker's anger flares; Lyle's doesn't.

"No."

"Lin?"

"I'm sorry, what has my wife got to do with any of this?"

Miss Parker's anger flutters, and falls away. His mother's a liar, he doesn't think anything of it; but his wife: it suddenly clicks, _Hang on!_

"She's dead."

It's not a growl, not in any way aggressive or accusing, but Lyle flinches. "I highly doubt that she's want anything to do with me, in the circumstance," he replies formally.

_Mind your wording_, Miss Parker thinks, but she gets that something's happening.

"Because Ursula is, it's alright to bring up my mom, even my wife. I'm sorry, who's it going to be next – Jimmy?"

"Your 'mom'?" Cox looks, suddenly, slightly… slightly something like sickened.

Miss Parker controls her urge to hit him across the face: Catherine hadn't given her son up _voluntarily_, Raines had been the one who'd lied to her; telling her he'd died: how tragic!

"I've upset you," Lyle deduces, "okay; but don't… don't bring them into this; it's not about them, it's about us. You, and me. Well, yes, and no. You think I'm like you, but I'm not. And you're not like me. I should hope that you wouldn't want to be, either." He stops, gives it a moment. Whether for himself or for Cox, is unclear. "You need… to understand one thing."

"And what's that!" Cox interrupts.

"No. No! Stop it! Stop it now. We'll talk about this later."

"Haven't I already-"

"Then get out."

Cox stares. Maybe he's not sure if he heard right. Just like that, not even any anger in it.

"Get out!"

Lyle shakes his head and walks up to Cox. He takes his arm and starts walking toward the door; Cox follows. "I've told you, time and again; this is unacceptable."

"You can't-"

"Then just get out. I don't want you in here."

"Lyle, she's _my_ sister!" Cox's tone is desperate, not angered. "You're being unreasonable."

Lyle stops before they reach the door and drops his arm. "Go," he says, not even looking at him now; looking at the door instead.

"Or what? What happens then, if I don't?" Cox isn't budging. "It's not going to be truth _just_ because you want it; it actually has to be truth."

"Just go," Lyle tells him, looking at the floor now.

"You have no right to blame me for that; do I blame you for Kyle? But, no, they're not even the same, are they?"

Lyle walks over to the door and opens it.

"What'll you do? Hit me, like you hit that Tower employee? You didn't even know Kyle; there's something I don't get. What-"

"Go."

At her brother's growl, Miss Parker almost steps back. She catches herself in time; nobody even notices.

"Guys, this is unproductive."

Miss Parker is surprised, but no one notices; now, their attention is fixed on Broots.

Broots is staring at Cox.

Is it a warning? Miss Parker wonders.

"K-"

Like lightning, Broots is suddenly standing by Cox, in between him and Lyle. "He's doing it on purpose."

Lyle laughs. Like he'd care. Not now.

Cox opens his mouth to say something, but Broots gets there first. "No, no more out of you."

Cox plays his card: pissed, "Who the fuck do you think you are talking to me like that?"

"Fuck you, too, Cox. And get with it! Quit starting fights: _you_ might be good for it, but you're not the only one who gets dragged into this when it goes down!"

"Have you ever been accused of raping and murdering your own sister!" Cox yells in rising hysterics. "Of molesting her for _years_ before you finally decided it was time to fuck her off; things were getting too risky!"

"I don't have a sister."

"So what the fuck do you know! What do you FUCKING know!"

"I know I'm human, too. I know I've made some bad choices and some good ones. And, yes, surprisingly, I am a father. I know what it's like to feel responsible. But whatever happened-"

Cox lunges away from him. "It's like it's a _joke_ to him!"

Broots catches an arm. "Hey, no! That isn't fair! It's not a joke!"

Cox is staring at Lyle with a look like maybe he pities him his incapacity to get that, in the _real_ world, people have feelings.

Lyle stares right back at him as though it's not really happening; like it's something he's watching on television that's actually kind of boring.

"You can't joke about my sister like that!" Cox's voice holds the edge of a whine; it's an edge that says, _Hey, I'm not going to be just an edge in a moment; I'm going to be downright dangerous!_

Miss Parker shivers; she hopes that he doesn't start crying.

Suddenly, Lyle smiles and says in a quieter voice than usual, "You have to go."

Onto the end of which, Miss Parker's imagination tacks, _the teacher said so_.

"You're fucked up," Cox says, just like that; he yanks his arm from Broots's grasp and strides towards the door. He's out of here!

Lyle stops smiling at his comment, but says nothing.

"We're supposed to be finding Jarod," Broots offers finally, with badly disguised caution.

"Who cares?" Lyle asks, almost blankly.

"You care," Broots tells him.

"I don't care."

"You do care."

"Why should I care? Fucking child molester."

"You _know_ he didn't do any of what they say he did! Good God, Lyle!"

"No I don't. Where did you hear that?"

"From _you_!"

"Changed my mind," Lyle replies: easy as that. He smiles.

"You're friends," Broots appeals whilst Miss Parker watches on in bewilderment and shock.

"All my friends are dead."

"That's rubbish!"

"You wouldn't know; they're _my_ friends."

"For fuck's sake!" He shoots a look to Miss Parker and Sydney. "Am I on my own here? Neither of you are going to help out?"

"They don't care; why should they? They'd rather see my dead, in honesty. They'd like that, I b-"

The slap resounds around the room sharply, stinging people's ears as it must have stung Lyle's face.

A loud thump follows; Broots, the door.

"Don't you ever _fucking_ touch me again unless I say you can!" Lyle growls, almost shouting it.

Broots fixes his eyes to Miss Parker's: her brother.

Broots is pushed away from the door roughly before it is pulled open. "Find Jarod yourselves," Lyle tells them, and that's it.

Broots stares at Miss Parker. "You don't say anything!" he snaps angrily, and then nothing: it's back to finding Jarod, back to busy, busy.

* * *

"I assume there was a reason for all that," Sydney says, later.

"Ursula," is all the reply he receives; not even a glance.

_Don't mention the sister_, Miss Parker thinks; the first rule of handling Cox. It figures that her brother would be so eager to break it: it's a _rule_! Not to mention, breaking things is his idea of fun.

"And Lyle's reason?"

"Don't go there; not if it's about Kyle."

"Why not if it is about Kyle?"

"I don't know, maybe he identifies with Kyle more strongly than he does with Cox."

"I'm not seeing why he would identify with Cox to begin with."

"To begin with, let's get one thing very straight." Broots whips away from the desk to face Sydney, "He isn't you or me, or even Cox. He's damaged. Damaged is normal for him; it's the other shit that isn't. Don't try to get it; take it as it is! Cox _knows_ he's iffy about Kyle, so he mentions him so he can get out of having to explain his anger at Lyle always mentioning his sister! I don't know what Lyle's game is; but Cox's is clear: keep out of my life, it's _mine_! I _get_ that; fair enough."

"Do you 'get' what's with the apple?" Miss Parker interrupts: fine, dandy; Broots wants to talk, talk, _talk_, but now _she_ has a question.

"Kyle."

"What?"

"Kyle liked apple; that's all I know."

"Kyle liked apple?"

"And believed in angels, yes; that's all I know. Nothing else."

"_Angels_?"

"Angels. _Look_, can't we just work on finding Jarod?"

Miss Parker looks at Sydney; Sydney gives a slight nod.

* * *

"I don't know why Broots intervened; it was a stupid move," Miss Parker tells Sydney on the walk to the coffee room for a bickie.

"It was the right move," Sydney says.

* * *

**The right move** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.


End file.
